


Indelicate Difficulties

by Demus



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Blindness, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demus/pseuds/Demus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tintin suffers one final bite from Tibet's mountains; snowblindness. As unaccustomed as he is to helplessness, adrift in the darkness he finds himself depending on the Captain more than ever before (Response to the 'temporary blindness' prompt on the meme).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Really, Captain, you don't have to go through all of this, I'm sure I can manage."

The Captain harrumphs at that, somewhere out in the darkness that has become Tintin's world. He walks at Tintin's side, a cloud of familiar smells and sounds with Tintin's arm tucked into his and the woollen sleeve of his jersey (surely the blue one) scratchy and rough. "You can manage all right; manage to break your bungling neck. No, I'm helping and you're just going to have to live with it. I bet you don't even know where we are."

"The front sitting room, Captain. Where you said you were going to settle me down for a nap even if you had to sit on me with a handkerchief of chloroform."

Haddock's reply is inaudible amongst the grumbling, but it makes Tintin smile anyway. Smiling into darkness feels wrong, somehow, as though his cheeks should be as frozen as his eyes - snowblindness, the doctors called it, another bite from Tibet's mountains, and whilst he _can_ see, the bandages are something of a relief. 

"Where's Snowy?" he asks and an answering yap comes from the vicinity of his knees, followed by something bumbling into his leg.

"Confound it, you tiny white iconoclast, don't get under his feet!" the Captain growls, without rancour. He stops, Tintin stumbling a little at the unexpected change, and manoeuvres Tintin a step to the side. “There, lad,” he says, fondness momentarily overriding his gruffness. “You can sit now, the sofa's right behind you.”

“Thank you.” It only occurs to Tintin once he's sat down that he hadn't even thought to reach back and check the couch's position. Snowy is quick to distract him by leaping into his lap, claws digging in as he makes his customary three spins before settling. The terrier is a comforting weight, his tail thumping rhythmically against Tintin's leg as he curls up.

Rustling sounds reveal the Captain's movements; the dry hiss of paper, the squeak of a worn bearing, a low scraping rumble, then the first strains of their new record warble out from the gramophone's corner. Tintin tilts his head to listen, slightly disconcerted that he cannot hear the Captain over the music, and Snowy licks his fingers, nuzzling insistently at them until he is rewarded with a stroke. “Captain?”

“Yes?” Haddock's voice comes from the left – he's in his favourite armchair, then, the one beside the decanter, but there is no telltale clink and gurgle. 

“Oh, nothing, I, er...Er...”

He tails off, feeling foolish. There is a pause, then the sofa cushions compress with the weight of another body, startling him, and the salty-sweet scent of the Captain's tobacco fills his nose. “The sounds carries much better over here,” comes the explanation, Haddock's elbow jostling Tintin's as a distinctive scrape and faint sulphurous smell announce the striking of a match. 

Tintin relaxes, at last. “Of course it does.”

Unfortunately, the inconveniences of impaired vision make themselves entirely apparent some forty minutes later. Tintin attempts not to squirm, an uncomfortable need pressing relentlessly under the waistband of his trousers, but fate, it seems, has decided to be cruel to him. He gives up. “Captain?”

“Yes?”

“I...I find myself in difficulty.”

“Oh.” Rustling again, the cushions dipping as the Captain shuffles in place (turning to face him?).

Tintin does squirm this time, the discomfort growing. “It is...an indelicate difficulty,” he says, his nerve failing him, and the Captain sighs.

“If you need to piss, lad, just say so. I'll not have you ruining the furniture like your cross-grained mutt did on his first visit.”

The words are rough but the tone is teasing, gentle, and the sickening roil of humiliation calms somewhat. Tintin wriggles again, feeling so much like the nervous schoolboy he used to be that he is almost surprised not to smell chalk dust on the air. “I, er- Could you walk me to the bathroom?” he asks, resigned. Reliance doesn't come easily to him. “I...think I'd get lost by myself.”

The Captain grins – Tintin doesn't know quite how he notices this, perhaps it is the rounded lightness in his next words; “It's a good thing that I know better than to leave you by yourself, then. Come along, on your feet. And try not to soak them, eh? Poor Nestor has more than enough laundry to do at the moment.”

*

Helplessness is deeply, deeply frustrating. Tintin rarely feels the urge to swear (particularly with the Captain making such inventive use of his language) but the forced inactivity of his condition is driving him batty. 

He has never before appreciated how much he is ruled by his habits; the first few days after a trip, even one so harrowing as their last, are for unpacking and rearranging his room to accommodate his new souvenirs, for putting pen to paper (or ribbon to typewriter), for _sorting things out_. Incapacitated as he now is, he can only listen to Nestor's bustling as the butler unpacks for him putting things in all the wrong places. The clarity of the details is already starting to slip, memory playing its age-old tricks, and if Tintin does manage to get down an article, it is going to be a vague approximation of events at best. The whole thing is maddening.

And he's not the only one feeling the pressure. Snowy is a restless presence, constantly on the move , tugging every so often at Tintin's plus-fours and whining when the action does not result in a walk. Tintin can only pet him, focusing on the distinctive rough-soft feel of tightly-curled fur, soothing the dog's anxiety. Snowy refuses to leave his side, breaking into whimpers whenever the Captain takes him outside to perform his necessaries; but then he has always known when something is wrong.

The Captain, by contrast, exudes a demeanour of absolute calm. Tintin is unsure, but suspects there is a healthy dose of relief in it. Danger is Tintin's business and Tibet was Tintin's alone, yet still the Captain followed and fell and dragged himself up again, almost to his own end. The thought prickles at the back of Tintin's mind, ever-present, a torment to rival the helplessness. He is scarred from the Captain's worst fall, the rope having bitten so deep into his waist that it bruised, and each twinge reminds him how narrow their escape truly was. 

A cry of “Ahoy, landlubber!” distracts him from his dismal musings. Once more, Tintin feels his shoulders release a tension he had not even been aware of, Haddock's voice unlocking his muscles in an instant. Snowy disappears, a great hullaballoo of sniffing announcing his actions, then rumbles a welcome. Tintin follows the sound to pinpoint his friend, hoping he is not looking completely the wrong way.

“Captain,” he replies, evenly. “Is it time for Snowy's walk?” 

Another little helplessness on top of the many; without clocks, without even the most basic sensitivity to light, he has absolutely no idea what time it is. No wonder he feels so strange, so adrift.

The Captain, meanwhile, strokes his beard (Tintin knows the sound now, the grating scrape of thick hair against sea-hardened skin). “Not exactly,” he says, the noise speeding up to indicate that he is now scratching the bristles rather than rubbing them. Perhaps he has taken the time to trim his whiskers? That would explain the irritation.

Tintin's eyelids twitch with wanting to blink. “Not exactly?” he repeats, unsure.

“It's time for both of you to take a walk – thundering typhoons, Tintin, you can't stay cooped up inside the house like this, you'll go as crazy as Cuthbert! What say we take the air, eh? The sun's shining beautifully today.”

“But the doctors said-”

“Hah, doctors? What do they know about healing people? Doctors just give you a prescription and a healthy feeling of humiliation. No, Captain Haddock knows what's best for you, and that's a stroll in the countryside. I've got your coat.”

“You said it was sunny!” Tintin protests and the Captain laughs.

“Not sunny enough to keep the frost out. That's enough lollygagging, now! On your feet or I'll order Nestor to serve you nothing but gruel until your eyes recover!”

* 

Captain Haddock's mystical healing abilities are proving potent. Tintin leans back against the tree he's sitting by, feeling the whorls of bark digging into his back, and smiles. Over the Captain's snores, he can hear the bright twittering of sparrows and doves cooing from the lower branches. The air is fresh – the air is always fresh in at Marlinspike – and Tintin can almost feel the fog clearing from his mind. Without vision, he can't help but tune into his other senses; there are tiny scuffling noises in the undergrowth, some woodland animal that Snowy is barely restraining himself from chasing, and the wind stirs the leaves in the trees, making them whisper soft nothings to each other. It seems he is not adrift from the world.

In fact, he feels quite his usual self. He grins and pats Snowy, feeling the tension coiled in the terrier's muscles. “Poor Snowy,” he says and the dog whines softly at the sound of his name. Tintin ponders waking the Captain, then decides that straying a little wouldn't hurt. He can count his steps, after all, and he has an excellent sense of direction.

“Come on, then, boy,” he says, levering himself up carefully, using his cane for balance. He's just about got the trick of sweeping it out in front of him to check for obstructions and he sets off, taking careful, measured steps. There's a slight incline that grows steeper as he walks, the trees thinning, and he speeds up, listening to Snowy's excited panting. It is utterly and wonderfully peaceful.

For about five minutes.

“M'sieur Tintin! M'sieur Tintin!”

Tintin halts, head tilted as he tries to identify where the voice is coming from. It's not a voice he recognises and it's male and out of breath, accompanied by the sound of hurrying footsteps. The honorific suggests that threat is not intended, but he is wary nonetheless.

“Hello?” he says cautiously, shifting his grip on the cane. Snowy begins to growl.

The footsteps come to a stop in front of him. There's a faint scent of aftershave and the rustling of paper. “M'sieur Tintin, I'm so glad I caught you, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Damien St-Jacques, I'm a-”

“Reporter,” Tintin interrupts, resigned. The story had reached European newspapers by the time he made it home – the miraculous recovery of a survivor was big news, after all, and his unusual delay in publishing the story had resulted in quite a few phonecalls from other journalists already. “I'm afraid I can't do any interviews-”

He flinches as his arm is suddenly taken in a firm grip, too surprised to resist as he is tugged firmly away from his chosen path, St-Jacques cheerfully saying, “Come now, m'sieur, there's no need for reticence! It will only take a minute or two and we'll compensate you for your time.”

“M'sieur, please,” Tintin yanks himself free, staggering back a pace and tightening his grip on the cane. Snowy's growling is constant now, a low thunderous rumble. “As you can see, I am not- not well, I simply can't-”

“St-Jacques!” comes an angry shout, another unfamiliar voice, and Tintin takes another step back. “This is my story, you snake, the editor assigned it to me!”

St-Jacques snorts. “Then you should have run to your car, Caroline, not painted your nails.”

“How _dare_ you-”

“Monsieur, Madame, _please_ , I promise you, there will be a statement,” Tintin says, desperately, but neither of them hears. He is disorientated and the first journalist's insistence has led him away from the path he knows - he quests wildly for the man's arm but St-Jacques has moved away, arguing fiercely with his rival, and Tintin's heart begins to jackhammer in his chest, a rapid quadruple-beat tattoo, he _can't get back_...

Then, like a punch to the gut, it comes.

“TEN THOUSAND THUNDERING TYPHOONS!”

Tintin gasps with relief, reaches out again; this time, his hand is taken by another, large and strong, and the Captain is bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Visigoths! Filibusters! Assassins! How the devil did you get in here, you mangy bilge-swallowing traitors? Get off my land before I set the dogs on you!”

Snowy barks fierce agreement, furious as a whole pack of dogs, and the sound of running footsteps announces their unexpected guests' rapid departure.

“You don't have any dogs, Captain,” Tintin says, with a calmness he doesn't feel.

Haddock lets go of his hand, clearing his throat. “Well, they don't know that, do they? Besides, Snowy did a fine job of scaring them off, those leeches.”

Tintin opens his mouth to reply but the words refuse to come out, choking him. Suddenly nerveless fingers drop the stick and he turns, stumbles, and finds himself firmly brought up against a chest that feels as wide as the world. He clings to it, driven by an impulse he cannot name, and digs his fingers into the wool of Haddock's jumper. “Captain,” he says, voice oddly thick, and arms come up around him, steady as the tide.

“There now, _mon cher_ ,” the Captain says, gruffly; his French far surpasses Tintin's English, he speaks it like a native, but the endearments sit awkwardly on his Highland tongue, rolling rough with his brogue. “You're all right now.”

Tintin realises with a start that his knees are trembling with weakness and his eyes are clenched shut even beneath the bandages. “You must think me foolish,” he says, feeling absurdly like some fainting damsel in a romance novel; he feels powerless, utterly powerless, and the shock of it after his previous joy has left him reeling.

The Captain strokes his back. “Not at all, lad,” he says, his voice rumbling in his chest, right next to Tintin's ear. “And I'm sure this little escapade will teach you absolutely nothing about wandering off on your own; come along, now, let's get back inside. It must be lunchtime, I'm famished.”

He leans on the Captain's arm on the way back to the hall, cane abandoned, and listens to his friend's inconsequential chatter, content just to listen. Whatever the Captain thinks, he certainly won't be doing any more wandering. Not for now, at least.

* 

Lunch passes in uncharacteristic silence. Tintin knows but does not understand the shakiness that has taken root in his mind as well as his hands. It is shock, of course. He is unaccustomed to it, as unaccustomed as he is to physical weakness or fear, and the morning's encounter lingers unpleasantly in quivering fingers and the fluttering queasiness in his stomach. Mme Thiry's excellent mushroom soup is cloying on his tongue, awful and heavy, and he has to force himself to take little sips – a cup has been provided rather than a bowl, in deference to his condition.

His _condition_. 

The Captain endures his melancholy with no audible signs of distress. The chink of cutlery and occasional slurp, teamed with the soft ripping of crusty bread, reveals hearty consumption of the meal that Tintin can only pick at. 

By contrast, Snowy, who is usually insistent on his fair share from the table, leans against Tintin's leg and makes no move to beg or caper for treats; Tintin appreciates the palpable weight. It has been only a few short years since Tintin found a trembling scrap of fur lying sodden and half-dead in one of Brussels' winding alleyways but now Snowy is a part of him, as much a part of him as his curiosity or his insatiable urge to travel, and his footsteps are incomplete without the smaller, padding shadow that clings belligerently to them. The incident with the other reporters has obviously shaken Snowy as much as it has his master; he is possessive of Tintin, growling when even Nestor steps too close, his hackles bristling under fingers that seek to soothe him.

Unable to continue eating, the journalist puts his cup down, fumbling a little when the table meets his questing hand before he expects it. Snowy whines at his frustrated sigh. He reaches down, air shifting across his palm as Snowy sniffs at it before the warm wetness of a lick, then the terrier nudges at him for a scratch.

Nestor's voice intrudes; “Is the soup not to your liking, Master Tintin?” 

Normally quiet to the point of witchcraft, Nestor has been careful to announce his presence these past two days with the scuff of footsteps or little polite coughs – the smell of silver polish accompanies him always, Tintin has noticed, and the implacable steadiness of his tone sounds somehow softer, less impersonal, when he addresses Marlinspike's youngest inhabitant.

“It's fine, thank you Nestor,” Tintin says, hurriedly sitting up and causing Snowy to whine. “Please convey my apologies to Madame Thiry, I fear my appetite is not up to her excellent fare.”

In the seat opposite, the Captain snorts. “If you don't drink at least half of that, I'm force-feeding it to you,” he says, in that gruffest of tones that brooks no argument, and Tintin finds himself meekly reaching for the cup.

It takes him a few seconds to realise he's knocked it over; the _thud_ is inexplicable, then comes the Captain's cry of “Blistering-” and Tintin's fingers are suddenly on fire, burning with the spill of scalding liquid. He snatches his hand back to his chest with a yelp and several things happen at once; Snowy lands in Tintin's lap barking fit to burst, the Captain's chair clatters as it hits the floor and Tintin's hand is taken in a cool, firm grip then abruptly dropped with a cry of pain - Snowy's barking has gone muffled for a moment, and Tintin is just realising that _he's bitten Nestor_ when his wrist is taken in a second, warmer grip and his burning hand is plunged into a oasis of blessed cold.

The water jug, he realises. The Captain has shoved his hand into the half-full water jug, cooling the burn instantly, and Snowy's gone quiet in his lap though he is hunched and tense, nosing at Tintin's cheek for reassurance. “Nestor?” Tintin says, cautiously.

“I'm quite all right, sir,” the butler says, from somewhere behind him. “I fear my jacket has taken rather more damage than my arm.”

“Oh, thank goodness!”

“Thundering typhoons, lad, is that all you can say?” the Captain says – disbelief makes his voice shrill, right next to Tintin's ear, and the journalist winces. 

“Nestor was only trying to help-”

“Great gargling sea-gherkins, he isn't the one with boiling hot soup all over his hand! Come on, let's get you to some running water – nothing else better go wrong today!”

*

There are some things that one simply shouldn't say.

After the soup debacle, Tintin had allowed the Captain to bustle him into the kitchen, where Mme Thiry cooed over him and held his hand under the cold tap for what felt like an interminable age, then bound it up with cool, aloe-scented liquid and ordered him to rest. _Rest_. As though he truly were a fainting damsel.

With uncommon tact, the Captain had suggested that they read together in the library. Tintin had readily accepted – though he would never admit it, Haddock had a fine voice for reading aloud, deep and sonorous, and Marlinspike's library had a particularly fine collection of explorer's journals. So they had settled together in the paper-scented room, Tintin under a blanket despite strenuous protestations, and the Captain had begun a tale from one of his own ancestor's voyages.

Tintin must have fallen asleep; he wakes with a start, momentarily alarmed that he can't open his eyes or move his fingers. He sits up, dislodging Snowy, and moves to throw off the blanket that's restricting his movements then - _ah_. He still has the bandages on. Of course.

He slumps. Despite all of his protests he is behaving exactly as a good invalid should, afternoon naps and all. The Captain had obviously taken his leave once Tintin succumbed, rightly trusting the journalist's ability to navigate his way around this wing of the hall without help, and who could blame him? Tintin had been far too much of a drain on his time and attention since Tibet, no wonder the poor man had seen fit to escape.

“Come on, then ,Snowy,” Tintin says, determined to throw off the black mood that threatens to descend, standing and reaching for his cane. “Let's see if we can find something to do.”

The little dog yaps agreement but before Tintin can move to fulfil his statement, a noise from downstairs stops him in his tracks; breaking glass.

Were the professor in residence, such a noise wouldn't be unusual (its absence might be, not its presence) but Calculus has been in Geneva since before their return from Tibet. Tintin freezes, tilting his head to listen. It had been a substantial sound, loud enough to carry through the massive ceilings and numerous closed doors and therefore loud enough to be alarming. There is a chance that the Captain had succumbed to his insatiable thirst, of course, but Tintin barely entertains the possibility – not when a member of the household is ill. Never then. 

It can't be Nestor. But for the clumsiness of others (Tintin feels his cheeks flush – the embarrassment is far too near) Marlinspike's butler is impeccably careful. Madame Thiry, who clings to a rather Georgian view on the position of employees in a manor house, rarely leaves the kitchens when the Captain is in residence, believing (wrongly) that she should neither be seen nor heard. That leaves one rather troubling possibility; an intruder.

Tintin fumbles his way to the writing desk in the nearest corner, walking as quietly as possible, and begins to rummage through the drawers. The lives that he and the Captain lead can be perilous at home as well as abroad and their precautions are extensive; the library is where Tintin spends most of his time and the Captain brooked no argument in the placing of a clean, serviceable revolver in it. Gun retrieved, the reporter whispers Snowy to his side and creeps to the door, relieved to find it resting slightly ajar. He puts his ear to the crack and listens.

Silence. 

No, not silence, not quite – there is a faint scuffling noise at the edge of his hearing, the brush of leather against carpet heading towards him, and he retreats back to the couch, finding it after a couple of false starts and tugging the blanket into place.

He waits.

The library door creaks as it opens and Snowy barks a warning, falling quiet at Tintin's touch, and the double-scuff of two sets of feet announce the presence of the intruder and....( _woolsaltseatobaccopaper_ ) the _Captain_. “Mr Tintin,” a harsh voice says, and the Captain lets out a muffled grunt, one of those little sounds that means pain rather than irritation. Tintin's hand tightens on the gun. “I'm quite certain that you are awake. You should know that I have your friend at gunpoint and any sudden moves on your part will result in his immediate death. Do you understand?”

Tintin nods, slowly. 

“Good. Now, remove that blanket – concealed weapons make my trigger finger twitch, and you've no hope of missing the Captain with that bandage over your eyes.”

The Captain makes another pained noise and Tintin begins to move. There is something that this villain has not taken into account; even blind, even with one hand out of commission, Tintin is _dangerous_. The knowledge of how dangerous he is sits easily on his shoulders – he's not violent, after all, or short-tempered or cruel – and he feels an absolute calm descend. He grasps the edge of the blanket with his bandaged right hand, making sure to display the weakness openly then, with a sudden surge, he tosses it in the direction of the voice. 

There's a loud curse, the heart-stopping retort of a gun and an equally heart-stopping _thud_ as something hits the floor, then Tintin's left arm swings up and around. “Don't move!” he orders, praying that he's correct in his estimate of the man's position. “Captain?”

For a second or two, silence is his only answer. “Captain!” he snaps, worry sharp in his voice, and this time it's a command.

“I'm all right, lad,” the familiar voice says, accompanied by shifting noises, “I ducked as soon as I saw you move, the filthy sassenach shot yon blanket rather than me. Not so clever now are you, you galumphing stoolpigeon? Thought you could mess with Captain Haddock, eh? I'd drop that pistol if I were you, Tintin's a much better shot even without his eyes.”

The intruder's gun clatters to the carpet. Tintin keeps his arm raised and finger on the trigger until the Captain kicks the weapon aside and orders the man to turn around – from the sounds of things, he's magically acquired rope from somewhere and is proceeding to demonstrate all of his most complicated knots for the man's enjoyment, gloating gleefully over his utter failure. Tintin lowers the gun, clicking the safety into place, and sits back with a relieved sigh.

Perhaps being an invalid is not quite so terrible, after all.

 *

“Of course, as soon as we heard that McGivern was in Belgium-”

“We hastened to warn you. He's a very dangerous man, is he not, Thomson?”

“Precisely, Thompson. And given the threats he issued against you at his trial-”

“We thought it best to intervene. He's no danger now, though – we must compliment you on your apprehension of the villain!”

“Villain thoroughly apprehended, well done Tintin!”

With great difficulty, Tintin suppresses his laughter as his free hand is vigorously pumped up and down first by one Thom(p)son, then by the other. “Thanks, detectives!” he says, sunnily; it is, to his great surprise, quite easy to tell the two voices apart. Thomson's voice is lower, his French a trifle more accented than Thompson's, and Thompson pronounces his vowels with a far more rounded, upper class flair. They had burst into Marlinspike's main hall mere minutes after he and the Captain had subdued the gun-toting intruder, with the revelation that the man had been convicted of human trafficking in the case of the Red Sea Sharks and sentenced, on Tintin's evidence, to a rather long stretch in prison. 

The Captain lets out a harrumph, clearly unimpressed. “'Thanks detectives', indeed. Haven't you bumbling bombadiers heard of telephones? We were like sitting ducks when this hooligan turned up! Thanks to your incompetence, Tintin and I nearly got our heads blown off!”

Snowy, pacing at Tintin's heels, yaps in what, had he been human, might have sounded like agreement.

“Well, I, er-”

“That is to say, we, er-”

“Hush, Snowy! Captain-” Tintin says, reaching out in the direction of Haddock's voice, but the Captain, it seems, is in no mood to be placated; he shakes Tintin's hand off his arm in temper. 

“Ten thousand thundering typhoons! Tintin, you simply can't be so calm, this is monstrous!”

Tintin, unperturbed, reaches out a second time and grasps the woollen sleeve, determined to say his piece. “Captain, please, the detectives would never deliberately endanger us. It was just an unfortunate mistake, that's all.”

“That's _all_?” Disbelief sharpens the Captain's voice and Snowy growls at the sound, pressing close to Tintin's leg. “Blistering blundering blue barnacles, if that's _all_ -”

“Sir,” comes a welcome interruption from beyond their little group, “If you please, sir, the police have arrive with a van for the criminal gentleman. Shall I instruct them to remove him?”

Haddock's furious tension subsides a little, the muscles of his arm relaxing under Tintin's fingers; the settling of his mood must be infectious, for Snowy relaxes as well, moving to sit calmly on Tintin's right foot. “Aye, Nestor, you do that; and have them remove these calamitous clots as well!”

Thomson (or is it Thompson?) sniffs in an affronted manner. “Calamitous clots indeed! Have you ever been so insulted, Thompson?”

“Never, Thomson! More insulted, I have never been. Good day to you, gentlemen!”

“Detectives!” Tintin calls, anxious to soothe the policemen's ruffled feathers, but they are grumbling incessantly to each other and, as announced by the loud _crash_ that accompanies their exit, rather too preoccupied with their hurt feelings to pay attention to their surroundings. He tuts. “Captain, really, that was terribly unfair! No one was hurt, after all.”

“Hah! Only thanks to your quick wits!” Haddock pauses, his bluster subsiding for a moment, then Tintin is startled by the touch of a warm hand covering his, squeezing his fingers. “In point of fact, I'd say you saved my life, laddie,” the Captain says, gently.

The warmth in his voice causes Snowy's tail beats a brief rhythm against Tintin's ankle and the journalist feels his eyelids twitch with wanting to blink and, to his mortification, his cheeks begin to burn with a deep flush. The Captain's sincerity, his touch in the darkness, makes him feel dreadfully exposed; he wants, with rather sudden fierceness, to rip the bandages off and see exactly how the Captain is looking at him, what he can read in careworn blue eyes. “Captain...”

Abruptly, the hand drops his, Haddock stepping back with an awkward cough. “Well, that's enough of- I have to, er... It's been a long, odd day, we should- should...I'll have Nestor draw you a bath.”

Rapid footsteps announce the Captain's departure. Tintin, arm still raised, stares blankly into the blackness. “Now what in the world was all that about, Snowy?”

The terrier, unmoving, lets out a yelp; Tintin can only assume it is incomprehension.

*

There is no tonic quite so refreshing as a bath, Tintin muses. Marlinspike Hall has many bathrooms, each more luxurious than the last, and Nestor evidently believes that he is in need of pampering, for the tub in which he finds himself is enormous, filled almost to the shoulders. The water is blisteringly hot, just a shade too warm to be quite comfortable, and silky with a fragrant oil that fills the room with a sweet, heady scent. Steam clouds Tintin's perception, making him light-headed, and he is just about to sink beneath the surface of the water when he realises his mistake.

His right hand, still bandaged, rests on the side of the tub.

“Oh dear,” he says, to the air; Snowy's propensity for flinging himself into any available pools of water has seen him banished, whimpering in protest, to the corridor. “Well, I'm sure I don't need both – bathing one-handed can't be that difficult.”

Resolute, Tintin fumbles along the edge of the bath with his left hand, trying to find the soap dish; he locates it with ease and feels for the soap. He closes his fingers around it, then, with a loud and somehow mocking clatter, the slippery bar catapults itself out of his grip, making a distant _thud_ as it hits the opposite wall.

“ _Crumbs,_ ” Tintin says, with feeling, and he is just considering the likelihood of finding it on his own when a knock comes at the door. “Yes?”

“It's me, lad.”

“Captain?”

“Aye, are you shipshape in there? From the way Snowy's carrying on, I thought you might have drowned.”

He grins. “Nothing so dramatic, I'm afraid! It's just that I've gone and dropped the soap, that's all.”

For a moment there's no reply, then Haddock says, “D'you need help finding it?”

He should demur, of course. He has already been a frightful burden on the Captain's time with his ridiculous condition, but honestly, he's got no hope of finding one bar of soap in a bathroom this big with no vision and only one useful hand, and the water is so very _warm_... “If you don't mind?”

“Not at all.” The door's latch clicks as it opens, accompanied by footsteps, and the Captain makes an alarmed exclamation. “Blistering barnacles, have you brought a locomotive into the house?”

Tintin laughs, turning towards the Captain's voice. “Only a small one.”

“Hmph.” Haddock's footsteps are muted on the tiles, muffled by the steam. “Now, where is that confounded- Thundering typhoons, I thought you said you _dropped_ the soap.”

“I did!”

“'Dropped' or 'threw'? How did the dratted thing get all the way over here?”

The Captain's voice gets louder as he nears the tub, Tintin tracking the movement as best he can and looking up when Haddock halts. “There now, soap retrieved – are you sure you're all right?”

“Thank you, Captain, I'm quite capable of-”

Haddock interrupts him. “Ten thousand- Your hand, Tintin, I'd forgotten! How on earth do you expect to get cleaned up with a hand out of commission?”

Tintin's cheeks somehow find the blood to flush. “Well, I- I'm sure I'll be able to muddle along?”

“And crack your skull open slipping on wet tiles, no doubt.” The Captain sighs, a queer squelching sounds coming from his hands (fiddling with the soap?). “All right, then, let's get you sorted.”

“Please don't trouble yourself, Captain, I can manage.”

There is a long pause, then a hand rests unexpectedly on the damp skin of his shoulder. “You're no trouble, _mon cher_.”

Tintin wants to reply, but the fondness in his friend's voice makes his tongue clumsy, so he only nods and braces himself, the memories of countless hospital sponge baths rearing their ugly heads, but the Captain's touch is far from abrasive; Tintin relaxes as a washcloth glides over his shoulders, spreading the soap in circular motions. The Captain works methodically, rhythmically, and Tintin finds himself unwittingly sinking lower and lower into the water and first his back then his arms are tended to. The first cautious brush at his neck causes him to giggle, so the Captain presses a little harder, swiping the cloth across his chest.

Though brisk, the ablutions are gentle, almost tender, and Tintin feels an unaccountable heat reverberate through him, blooming under his skin in the wake of the Captain's attentions; every so often, the washcloth slips so that he feels the sea-roughened brush of blunt fingertips against his skin, touches that cause Haddock to pause, re-gather the cloth and begin again – bizarrely, Tintin finds himself wishing he wouldn't be so quick to correct himself.

By the time Haddock reaches his legs, carefully lifting first one then the other free of the water by the ankle, Tintin is so drowsily relaxed that he makes a noise of wordless protest when the ablutions halt. The Captain chuckles in response, patting his knee with a splash. “I'm not sure your modesty will stand for anything further!”

Tintin's reply is swallowed by a yawn, one that he covers a second too late, and the Captain pats his knee a second time. “Come on then, landlubber, up you get – if you stay in there any longer, you'll grow a fish tail and gills, and Cuthbert will have you put in a jar for the Museum of Natural History.”

At the Captain's insistence, Tintin eventually sits up, clambering reluctantly to his feet and leaning heavily on Haddock's shoulders as he fumbles his way out of the high-sided bath; a towel is hurriedly wrapped around his waist before shivers can overtake him, and he unwittingly slumps forwards, exhaustion sweeping over him.

“S'rry,” he slurs, struggling to stay awake, and the Captain's chest rumbles with laughter.

“Ah, Tintin. You'll be the death of me, my boy.”

There are fingers combing through his hair, Tintin realises, tickling against the bandages in long, lingering touches, but the darkness seems deeper than ever around him and, with one last struggle against the inevitable, he slips into sleep.

* 

_Heat._

_He's floating, he thinks, weightless, no pressure to indicate that he's lying on anything. It's a peculiar sensation. Air tickles against his skin, suggesting slight movement, but there's no sense of direction. He could be stood on his head for all he knows. He does know that he's naked – the knowledge is not perturbing in the least – and his skin prickles with heat, liquid heat that trickles in nonsensical arcs, coiling serpentine, melting over his body._

_It's dark, of course, but that's because his eyes are closed as he wriggles and squirms in the grip of that torturous, languorous heat. His lips taste like salt when he licks them, his tongue feeling too clumsily large for his mouth, and he is distantly aware that he's started panting; the air is growing stifling and he gulps it down, sluggish muscles barely responding to his commands._

__Something's happened to the oxygen _, he thinks muzzily, thoughts thicker than treacle._ The air...where am I? __

_Without warning, the sweet-melting heat abruptly coalesces into broad hands that hold him down, hold him still, and he jerks in their grip, eyes flying open to reveal..._

_Blackness._

Tintin wakes with a start, flinging himself upright; the cloying weight of the blankets falls away as he sits up, eyelids flickering against the compresses that hold them closed. He is sweating, his breath coming in starts and gulps, and there is a familiar slick-stickiness in his pyjama bottoms. “Great snakes,” he says, feebly, and raises a hand to touch his forehead; his palm, now free of bandages, comes away clammy and he winces. “So much for bed rest.”

A concerned “Ruuuhr?” from the corner announces Snowy's awakening, no doubt in response to his voice, and the dog's feet patter against the floor, coming to a halt at the bedside. Tintin pats the coverlet in invitation, and Snowy leaps, landing with only a brief scrabble for balance, bouncing up to Tintin and huffing doggy breath into his face.

“I'm all right, boy,” Tintin says, stroking Snowy's curls as the terrier swipes a smooth tongue over his chin. _Rather_ , he reflects, a touch ruefully, _I will be as soon as I can get to a sink_. 

It is not terribly unusual for him to wake in such a condition, particularly whilst at Marlinspike; a reasonable response, he speculates, since the adventuring life leaves him barely enough mental energy to sleep, let alone fantasise. What is troubling is the vividness of the dream. He tends not to remember them in the morning – shapeless dreams, they are, rough sparks of friction and little else – but now he can still feel the whorl of fingerprints pressing into his hips, tough skin that scrapes a little against his own, strength that he actually has to fight...

Perhaps the vision centres of his brain are to blame. Like a man without occupation, their current indolence might have driven them to an extraordinary effort, the lack of stimulus necessitating something in the internal line. Tintin sighs, prompting Snowy to whine and lick his face with renewed energy until he is forced to fend the terrier off with a laugh. 

“It's not my best theory, but I suppose it will have to do,” he says, chuckling when a determined Snowy begins washing his fingers instead. Talking to himself is a habit he's never managed to get out of, but the dog has never seemed to mind. 

Feeling altogether more cheerful, Tintin bestows a final scratch to Snowy's ears and sweeps the blankets aside, intent on making his way to the washbasin in the corner.

“Laddie?”

Tintin stops. The voice comes from the direction of the doorway, muffled through the wood. “Captain?”

“Ah, you're awake, excellent – I've some breakfast for you, with Mme Thiry's compliments. Can you get the door?”

_Oh heavens_. “I- er, er, a moment, please! My robe is-”

Haddock lets out an amused snort. “Your robe? Blistering barnacles, Tintin, you were quite happy to cavort about in just your skin last night! Or have you forgotten who put you to bed?”

_Capable hands smoothing cotton into place, untangling his fingers from the lapels to which they cling, the salted-peat scent of whisky, the musty sweetness of tobacco, smells that are_ home _, that always drag him back from whichever brink he finds himself at, the weight of the blankets and the thrumming timbre of a voice that resonates deep, deep inside his bones._ “Oh yes, you- you did,” Tintin says, faintly. The memories are dizzying in their intensity, flooding his senses, and he hurriedly clambers from the bed. Snowy yelps behind him, presumably offended by the hasty abandonment, but Tintin continues across the room until he reaches the door, hyper-aware of the cool, unpleasantly sticky cling of his pyjamas.

Thankfully, the robe hangs in its usual place and he throws himself into it, tying the cord like a lifeline before he opens the door. “Good morning,” he says into the darkness, and the mouth-watering scents of whatever Haddock's carrying greets him, flooding his mouth with saliva. “Is that-”

“The Full Scottish,” the Captain says, with unmistakeable pride. “Back to bed now, landlubber, before I drop this confounded tray.”

Tintin's stomach chooses this moment to remind him how little he ate the day before; it growls, twisting insistently inside him and he obeys with alacrity; the Captain laughs behind him, not unkindly, and follows with his usual heavy tread. 

Once he's settled and Snowy has been shooed off, Haddock places the breakfast tray over his lap, the stands dipping the mattress either side of Tintin's hips. The reporter freezes. Haddock's closeness snatches awkwardly at something buried inside him, catching like a flint against firesteel; it's all smells again, the sea-scent that the Captain carries with him wherever he goes, _woolsaltsmokewood_ , cutting fresh and clean over the aromas wafting up from the breakfast, and Tintin's hands feel so terribly _empty_ that he curls them into the bedsheets. “Thank you,” he blurts out, once Haddock has moved away, and the Captain clears his throat.

“No need to thank me, I'm just the delivery boy. Well, go on, tuck in! I'll be back for the plate in a while, and if you haven't managed to choke on a tattie scone, we'll see about getting you ready for the doctor's visit.”

Tintin pauses; he's speared _something_ on the plate and is cutting it into what he hopes is a manageable size. “The doctor's coming today?” This is unexpected – the Captain's usual opinion on the usefulness of doctors aside, he's not due another visit from the physician for a day or two. 

Boot leather scuffing against carpet is his answer, the sound of his friend shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, then Haddock says, “I phoned him last night. Dash it all, Tintin, there must be something he can do! It does me no good to see you laid up like this!”

_Bacon,_ Tintin decides, chewing at his first mysterious mouthful. He swallows, licks his lips and says, “But I'm fine, Captain.”

The Captain, who has rather inexplicably drawn in a sudden breath whilst Tintin speaks (an aborted sneeze, perhaps?), lets the air out in a huff. “Well, _I'm_ not. Don't you see that I-” He halts, frustration clear in the brusqueness of his tone, a low rustling sound announcing that he's smoothing down his beard. There is a pause, then his hand lands heavy on Tintin's shoulder. “Eat your breakfast, eh? I'll be back soon.”

With that, and a flurry of footsteps, he's gone. Tintin cautiously pokes at his plate, wary of pressing too hard for fear of catapulting stray items off onto the bed, and definitely does _not_ feel a trifle too warm in the Captain's wake.

Not even a little bit.


	2. Chapter 2

The doctor's hands are as cool as his voice. Tintin, knowing better than to fidget, sits as straight and still as he can, trying to ignore the queasy leaps of his stomach. Dr Lenaerts has been his physician for several years, a quiet, capable sort of person who has never once batted an eyelid at the myriad peculiar conditions in which Tintin has presented himself. He is from Antwerp, a tall, thin man with a luxuriant set of white moustaches, who smells of tweed and mint and steel, undercut with the slightest trace of antiseptic. The touch of his long-fingered hands is unshakeably soothing.

“Now then,” he says, cotton tickling Tintin's ears as he begins to unwind it, “I don't want you to get your hopes up – snowblindness is a notoriously unpredictable condition.”

“Yes, doctor,” the reporter responds, his voice level. 

They are speaking Brabantian, a language that he knows the Captain struggles with, and he hears Haddock mutter something incomprehensible to himself from across the room. “Captain, if you would prefer-” he begins, in French, and Haddock splutters, obviously caught-out.

“No, it's all right, I know the doctor prefers that jibber-jabber language. Don't mind me.”

Dr Lenaerts sniffs, mock-primly. “That would be a great deal easier if you weren't huffing about the room like a caged tiger,” he says, and Tintin grins at Haddock's grumble of incomprehension.

“Perhaps we might have some tea?” he suggests, once more in French, knowing the doctor's fondness for Haddock's stash of English tea, brewed to a strength that would horrify anyone with a delicate palate and served with only the bare minimum of milk.

Haddock lets out a “Hah!” of laughter, his mood brightening with its usual swiftness, and his footsteps sound brisk as he makes his way to the door. “Aye aye, sir,” he calls, and Tintin wonders if he is performing his usual exaggerated parody of a salute. It is an act that never fails to make him smile. 

The door clicks shut. “There now,” Lenaerts says, softly. He resumes unwrapping the bandages with methodical care. “I live in constant fear of your Captain Haddock thumping me for causing you the slightest discomfort. He worries very much about you, you know.”

 _He worries_ too _much_ , Tintin wants to say, but that wouldn't be fair to the Captain. “I...suppose I am quite good at getting myself into worrisome situations.”

“If it were an Olympic sport, you would be a champion.”

He should feel indignant about that remark. If only it weren't true. 

Lenaerts evidently takes his silence for the agreement that it is, for he says, “Far be it from me to complain, of course, your custom has kept my practice very well-equipped.”

Tintin's lips twitch with wanting to grin and he is about to reply when the last strip of bandage is unwound from his head; he pauses, mouth half-open, free of the tight, exquisitely itchy torment and with only two light compresses holding his eyelids closed. The doctor's fingers trace his cheeks, following the line of where the bandages had lain against his skin, soothing a little of his tension, then his chin is taken in a firm grasp to tilt his head up. “No sign of leakage or adverse irritation,” Lenaerts says, sounding pleased, then those cool fingertips come to rest at the edge of the right compress. 

“Young man,” he says, in grave tones, “It is vitally important that you don't attempt to blink or open your eyes until I say so. The eyelid must be cleaned and examined before you test your vision, and if you try to open it before the ministrations are through, I shall set Snowy on you. Do I make myself clear?”

Snowy, lying on Tintin's foot, rumbles at the sound of his name. Tintin wants to smile, but the sickening flutter of anticipation twists his lips, furrows his brow, and he swallows hard against it, wishing that he hadn't been so quick to send the Captain away. “Yes,” he says, his voice not entirely free of tremors, and braces himself, gripping the arms of his chair.

Millimetre by agonising millimetre, the compresses are peeled carefully from his face, quickly followed by the featherlight brush of cool, aloe-scented cloths. “I'm pleased to say that the swelling has gone down,” Lenaerts says; Tintin, suddenly aware that he's been holding his breath, takes in a gulp of air and releases it with a long sigh, deliberately dropping his shoulders from the tense hunch they've taken. “Let me see, now...Yes, that should do it. All right, Tintin, I'm going to cover your left eye, then I want you to open your right very slowly. If it causes any pain, any at all, you are to close it immediately.”

Lenaerts doesn't wait for a response; his palm rests gently over the left side of Tintin's face and the reporter begins the slow process of coaxing his eye open. There is resistance, which surprises him – so often, during the past couple of days, he has felt his eyelids shift with the desire to open, and now that the opportunity is presented it seems that they are as cautiously reluctant as he is. Nonetheless, with some effort, the lid obeys him, twitching at first, then opening slightly, widening with each progressive blink. His eye feels gritty, swollen, but the ferocious ache has receded, and despite a veritable river of tears coursing down his right cheek, after several blinks he is able to make out the vaguest shadowy outline of the doctor; the room, he realises, is in as much darkness as can be achieved at noontime, the drapes drawn so that only thin slivers of light peek through.

He beams, delighted, and says, “Doctor, it's marvellous, I can-” then, with lightning-swiftness, pain snarls across his eye, jagged-sharp and white with heat, and he flinches, closing it with alacrity. “ _Crumbs_ ,” he says, the pain subsiding only a little, coiling with the restlessness of a spooked python. 

The doctor pats his shoulder. “Would you like to try the other?” he asks, calmly, and Tintin nods against his hand. 

“If you please.”

The process is dispiriting in its predictability. Once the ordeal is done, Tintin slumps in his chair with his eyes screwed shut against the lancing pain and swipes irritably at his damp cheeks. “Not quite healed, then,” he says, listening to the clink and rattle of the doctor's tinkering; from the fresh, menthol-and-aloe scent, he must be mixing up another cool compress.

“Not quite, no,” Lenaerts replies, matter-of-fact. “But you must not be too disheartened. The swelling, as I said, is receding nicely and from the brief glimpses I had, the reddening of the eye itself is much diminished – I'd say the burns are healing nicely, if slowly.”

“Slowly,” Tintin repeats, distastefully; he's being petulant, he knows, but this is so _unsatisfactory_. It's terribly unsporting of Tibet's mountains to have bitten so deep; his eyes burn and the bruises about his waist twinge with every movement, and the Captain is so worried, and it simply isn't _fair_.

Dr Lenaerts, no doubt guessing the sulky direction of his thoughts, lets out a sigh. “One can't rush one's health, Tintin, no matter how much you might want to,” he admonishes, sternly. “These stumbling blocks are not always sent to test us; perhaps this is a sign that you should turn your gaze inwards, if only for a little while.”

Before the reporter can fully digest this notion, the door clatters open and the Captain makes his customary racket as he strides in. “Sorry to have kept you, Nestor couldn't find the blasted tea leaves! Well? Well? Thundering typhoons, you haven't even started!”

“No, Captain,” Tintin says, waving a hand in the direction of Haddock's voice as Lenaerts begins to wrap new, but still hated, bandages around his head. “We've just finished. I'm afraid the examination was unsuccessful.”

“To be exact,” Lenaerts says, in wry French, “The examination was successful, but it did not yield the hoped-for result. Tintin's eyes require more rest and I am sure he would benefit from a further course of painkillers. There,” he adds, tying off the dressing with a distinct flick. “I trust there will be no further soup or rogue journalist-based shenanigans before my next visit? No? Good. In that case, gentlemen, I shall see you in two days. Remember to change the dressings as required!”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Tintin says, feeling suitably chastised; he listens to the clatter-clink of medicines being replaced into a Gladstone bag, the precise _snap_ of its clasp, then the low, furtive murmur of a clandestine conference held at the door; he suspects his friend is quizzing the doctor on the specifics of the consultation, Tintin being given to underplay the severity of any medical condition.

Once Dr Lenaerts is gone, Tintin allows himself to slide down in the chair, dislodging Snowy, who only resettles himself on Tintin's foot when the reporter stills. “I hate this,” he says, despondent, and the Captain's boots scuff against the carpet, announcing his movement across the room. 

“I'm sure you do,” Haddock says, gruffly; he's close enough to touch, close enough for those reassuring scents to reach Tintin, and he reaches out towards the source of comfort. The Captain takes his hand, folding it between his own, and the heat of him fills the darkness. “Shall we... Shall we read together again this afternoon?”

 _No_ , comes the thought, swift and unexpected. _No, let's stay here, like this, until the sun sets and you are as blind as I, and..._

Shaken by the impulse, the thought that tastes utterly unlike any of his usual thoughts, Tintin stares into the blackness, utterly confused. _Where on earth did that come from?_

“Yes,” he says, belatedly, realising that the Captain's hand is squeezing his to attract his attention. “Yes, let's... I should like that very much.”

“Ah, lad,” Haddock says, affection softening his voice, then a callused fingertip brushes against Tintin's cheek, tracing the edge of the new bandages with a delicacy that makes Tintin's breath stutter, and a broad palm cups his cheek. “If I could take this from you...”

Tintin, without quite knowing why, presses into the caress, tilting his head against fingers that slide a little into his hair. “Captain,” he begins, then halts; his mouth, normally so full of words, is empty, barren, and he wonders just how the Captain has managed to steal them away with one touch. “Captain,” he says again, needing to say _something_ , and the hand withdraws, leaving his skin a-tingle with warmth that doesn't belong to him. 

“Come along then, _mon petit_. The library ain't in the habit of coming when called, we'll have to go to it.”

Finding his feet proves oddly challenging and Tintin is obliged to lean a little on the Captain's arm as they make their way upstairs, struck by a peculiar dizziness. _Notoriously unpredictable, indeed_ , he thinks, dryly. _Whatever will this snowblindness bring next?_

 

*

The book they choose is one of the Captain's novels, a thriller by a man from his home country, and the rasping lilt of Haddock's accented French as he translates line by line is somehow fitting. Tintin, curled into his usual armchair with his cane in easy reach, feels his discontent ease as the story progresses, petulance eroded away by the smoke-roughened timbre and a story that sweeps him up as easily as one of his own adventures. He interjects only occasionally when the Captain's translation is less than elegant, and is unceremoniously grumbled at and called a 'nefarious nit-picking nuisance', which is the Captain's way of saying 'thank you'.

Eventually, his voice grown hoarse, the Captain pauses in turning a page and Tintin, never one to miss a hint, says, “Perhaps we should leave M'sieur Hannay there?”

“Good idea! It'll be getting dark soon anyway. Come on, we may as well take your little perisher out before he marks the atlas shelf as his territory.”

The comfortable drowsiness of their lazy afternoon sloughing easily away, Tintin uncurls himself, standing with a groan and reaching up in a long, indulgent stretch. He's been unable to perform his usual yoga routines for the past couple of days, unwilling to risk standing on his head or tying himself into a knot that he can't get out of, and his muscles feel tight. “A walk before dinner?”

The Captain clears his throat, inexplicably. “Er, yes, yes, a walk. Don't forget your stick.”

Tintin narrowly resists the urge to pout. “I'm perfectly capable of-”

“Your stick, Tintin.”

The journalist feels his brow furrow in thought, shifting the bandages across his forehead, then he clicks his fingers in triumph, a solution leaping into his mind. “Surely it would be far better if I were to lean on your arm,” he says, brightly, reaching out in the direction of the Captain's voice before he can protest. “You are a far better guide than my cane,” he adds, once he has snared Haddock's reluctant arm and entwined it with his own, “shall we?”

Snowy barks, interrupting whatever reply the Captain might have made, and his claws skitter against the wooden floor as he makes his enthusiasm known. Haddock sighs. “All right then, you scurvy schemer, let's go. Blistering barnacles, when did I become so soft?”

Tintin grins. “You've always been very accommodating, Captain.”

This earns him a snort, but despite his surface irritation the Captain doesn't seem terribly put-out; he matches his longer stride to Tintin's, dragging him a little closer as they negotiate the stairs with a grumbled explanation of, “I'll never hear the end of it if you go tumbling down these and crack your head open.” He even helps Tintin into his coat, muttering something about colds and invalids and delayed hypothermia that the reporter pretends not to hear.

The fresh air welcomes him like a long-lost friend as they walk out onto the front steps, Snowy bounded ahead with a delighted chorus of yaps, and a lively breeze tugs with playful vigour at Tintin's clothes. He smiles, baring his teeth to the wind, and the Captain chuckles beside him. “I'm beginning to think we should set you up a yurt out here and have done; you're not meant for indoors, laddie.”

“I suspect Nestor would disapprove, Captain, he's very proud of your lawns.”

Haddock hums in agreement as the crunch of the gravelled drive beneath their feet changes to the soft give of grass. “That said, it might save wear and tear on the house. How many windows and vases and sticks of furniture have we lost, thanks to those infernal interlopers we seem to attract?”

Tintin winces; he carries a fair amount of guilt for the damage inflicted upon the Captain's home, but Haddock pats his hand briskly before he can attempt his usual apologies. “Don't even think about offering to pay for anything,” comes the admonishment. “I've more money than I know what to do with, a few panes of glass aren't going to break the bank.”

It's easy to forget that the Captain is a rich man. He carries his wealth awkwardly and, despite a marked fondness for the costume and trappings of the landed gentry, he seems most comfortable in his old seagoing gear. For all his complaints, he's a nomad at heart, an adventurer from the ground up, and he struggles under the weight of his good fortune, unencumbered by the burden of the adventuring life. 

_Perhaps that's why he's never settled down_ , comes the thought, unheralded, and Tintin's mouth says, “But what about your legacy, Captain?” before his brain can catch up with it.

Haddock's step doesn't falter, but he draws his breath in a little sharply, surprised by the question. “I don't think there'll be anyone to leave all this to,” he says, and his tone is perfectly calm. “No, those heirlooms and gloomy portraits will no doubt end up in some museum or collection somewhere. Best we get the full use out of them, eh?”

Tintin tightens his hold on the Captain's arm; he sounds matter-of-fact, but there is a mildness to the words that is worrying, quiet that sounds like unspoken melancholy. “Did-” He hesitates; the question he wants to ask is deeply personal, almost intrusive, and he's quite certain that he doesn't have the right to voice it.

“Speak up, lad.”

“Did you- Did you ever want children?”

 _That_ stops Haddock in his tracks. Tintin stumbles, caught unawares by the suddenness of it, and he catches himself on his friend's arm; it has turned to steel in his grip, tightening like a vice, mirroring tension that fills the Captain's body, and Tintin hurries to say, “I'm sorry- I- Forget it, Captain, I didn't mean-”

“No, you did,” his friend says, heavily. He clears his throat, loosening his shoulders with a shrug, and gestures with the arm that Tintin is leaning on. “Let's walk, eh? Snowy'll think our legs have fallen off.”

They continue on in silence for a while, the rich, loamy scent of Marlinspike's woodland gradually creeping into the air, along with the hushed rustle of wind through branches. The ground grows softer under foot, crackling with leaves, and Snowy crashes happily through the undergrowth ahead of them, letting out the odd yip of excitement. There's a new, jittery sort of energy skittering through Tintin's body, apprehension and unease setting his skin a-shiver, and he digs his spare hand into his pocket, curling it into a fist to distract himself.

“There was a girl, once,” the Captain says, so unexpectedly that Tintin startles, “Back in Glasgow, before I signed on with the ironworks ships, there was a lass I thought to marry...”

He doesn't know what to say – should he say anything? - so he leans his shoulder briefly against the Captain's arm in acknowledgement. 

Haddock's pace slows, just a little, and his voice softens. “Margaret, she was called. Maggie. Oh, she was bonny – hair like mahogany, beautiful dark eyes, and her smile...When she smiled, it made a man feel ten feet tall. She was the foreman's daughter, and how a sour-faced stool-pigeon like him managed to produce something so divine, I'll never know.”

“Maggie,” Tintin repeats, carefully; it feels wrong on his tongue, a clumsy English (Scottish?) name, but the Captain says it with reverence and Tintin feeds that wonder into his mental image of the girl. He pictures her tall because the Captain tends towards tall women, and round-faced and sweet-natured and worthy of him. “Did you- Did she know?”

The Captain chuckles. “Aye, she knew. The whole ironworks probably knew, she made a bumbling, tongue-tied fool of me whenever I saw her. She nearly stopped me going to sea; there was another lad who fancied his chances, my age and a sight prettier, and I'd a mind to take welding work so I could keep an eye on him. Maggie wouldn't have it. She caught me on my doorstep the day before we were due to sail, kissed me senseless and told me if I didn't come back with a wedding ring, she'd give up on me.”

“She sounds wonderful!” 

“She was.” Haddock pauses. Tintin wonders if he is perhaps caught in the memory, then the man says, “She _was_ wonderful, and she waited for me even when the war broke out; it was during our return voyage, I'd spent half my wages on a ring for her, then the old Kaiser started his damnfool war and I didn't see home again for four years.”

Tintin has heard the Captain speak about his service during the Great War, the horror of sinking ships and blood-rich waters and dying men, but he'd never thought to ask if there had been a sweetheart waiting for him. “What happened?” he asks now, urgent for the answer, and the Captain sighs.

“I kept that ring with me all through the war, hoping she hadn't forgotten. I even wrote to her, when I could, but there was no chance of a reply and when I finally got home...It was the influenza, they said, she'd held on for as long as she could...”

“Oh, Captain,” Tintin breathes, his eyes burning with the tragedy of it; he stops, turning to his friend and, on impulse, reaches up to touch the Captain's face, finding and mapping the creased lines of his sadness, soothing the harsh angles and tracing them to their origin. The Captain submits to his touches, still as a stone beneath Tintin's exploring fingertips until they trace a crescent-shaped scar on his cheek, just above the line of his beard, and he lets out his breath in a shaky rush.

“I'm afraid you wouldn't like to have known the man I became, after that,” Haddock says, his voice raw. “I- I'm not proud of those years, _mon cher_.”

There it is again, that concern, that affection the Captain finds so difficult, spilling from his lips hoarse and shattered with a long-past heartbreak, and Tintin's heart clenches in his chest. The man sounds lost, as he hasn't for years, and Tintin wants to _see_ him, to undo the pain that winds itself into Haddock's voice. He's cradling the Captain's face now, his hands cupped gently around a jaw that can withstand the strongest blows, and he leans up, driven by that nagging, mysterious impulse that has plagued him ever since Tibet. “Captain,” he says, tilting his head, “Captain...”

And just like that, the Captain kisses him.

 

The Captain's lips are soft, so soft and cold with the air's chill, and they close over Tintin's with swift surety. There is desperation in it, fierce desperation that mirrors the restless itch crawling under Tintin's skin, and the reporter slides his hands into the Captain's hair, fingers combing through the shaggy mess even as Haddock's arms wind themselves around Tintin's back, tugging him closer. Tintin makes a noise at the back of his throat, pushing himself up on his tiptoes – heavens, whenever did he become so _tall_? - to return the kiss.

The moment holds them, ties them together, suspended in a half-second's decision. Haddock fills Tintin's world, surrounds and envelops, and he strains upwards to meet him, his heart fluttering stupidly in his chest; it's never been like this before, never so _right_ that his body sings with it. He's kissing the Captain, the _Captain_ , who follows in his footsteps and makes the wonders of the world seem brighter, who followed him to the Moon and back solely because he'd asked, who follows him even when their only certainty is Tintin's hard-set belief...

Abruptly, Haddock flinches under Tintin's touch, wrenches himself away, and the reporter locks his arms tight, holding the man against him even as their lips break apart. “Tintin- Tintin, wait-”

Tintin shakes his head – no, no _talking_ , talking will only get in the way – and launches forwards, catching the Captain's mouth by luck more than anything else, his tongue diving between the man's parted lips to explore. The Captain rumbles low in his throat, arms tightening, and his tongue curls against Tintin's, slipping slick and rough-smooth, clumsily eager; heat floods Tintin's senses, the furious burn of a flush that starts at the tip of his nose and scalds down his back, flaming to his centre and burning right to his toes. He is tugging at Haddock's hair now, needing him closer, _closer_ , devouring him with a hunger he's never known – heat, he tastes of heat, whisky's bite edged with smoke, Tintin wants _more_.

Gradually, breath-by-breath, desperation fades into certainty, the steel in their clasp turned molten, melting white to red-hot until the Captain pulls back with a final, mischievous swipe along Tintin's teeth. Tintin sags against him, thoroughly undone, and they stand together breathing each other in, lost to the world.

“And who, exactly, taught you how to kiss like that?”

The Captain sounds out-of-breath, stunned with an hint of outrage, and Tintin laughs. “It's all me, I'm afraid,” he says, turning to nose at the bare skin of Haddock's cheek. “It gave Skut quite the surprise as well.”

“ _Skut_?”

“No need to sound so scandalised, Captain.” Tintin laughs again at Haddock's grumble of a reply and cranes up to kiss the frown from his mouth, light-headed with the knowledge that he _can_. “There, now.”

The Captain licks his lips – they're so close that he catches Tintin's with the tip of his tongue – and leans his forehead against Tintin's, against the bandages that hold his eyes closed, the heat of his skin barely diminished by the thin cotton. “Ten thousand thundering typhoons! 'There' indeed. You tip the world onto its head and think to settle it with a 'there now'?”

“Unless I'm very much mistaken,” Tintin says, combing his fingers through Haddock's hair until his hands settle at the Captain's neck, his arms resting on broad shoulders, “it was you who kissed me.”

“Only because _you_ -” 

Tintin's eyelids twitch with wanting to open. “I?”

Haddock's hands curl at his back, clutching the material of his overcoat. “You looked as though your world had shattered.”

He considers this, feeling the rise and fall of the Captain's chest against his own, the beat of his pulse, the savage, glittering edge of that ever-present, torturous tension. Eventually, he says, “Did you- After... After the war, did you ever...”

The Captain sighs. “Until you, dear heart? Of course not.”

It's not possible for one's heart to feel so full. It's simply not possible. Tintin's breath stutters in his throat and he lifts his chin for the Captain's kiss, lip-to-lip, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, kissing open-mouthed and needy in the darkness, only taste and scent and the yielding press of the Captain's body.

When he comes back to himself, lips tender and swollen to the touch, dropping back onto his heels with a wince as his leg muscles protest, the Captain releases him reluctantly, then clutches Tintin's arm in sudden surprise. “Blistering barnacles, it's as black as pitch! How long have we been out here? And how in blue blazes will we get back?”

Tintin grins. “Allow me.” He laces their hands together, whistling for Snowy, and turns resolutely on his heel, striking out in the direction from which they came.

They walk back to the hall with their heads bent together, grass to gravel to granite, slowly ascending the stairs to Marlinspike's grand front doors. Nestor opens the door in a trice at their first knock, obviously having been waiting for their return, and he frets over the damp and the chill and the damage to their shoes to hide his worry whilst the Captain garrulously talks over him, demanding a hot supper on the double.

He does not let go of Tintin's hand.

 

*

It is to one of Marlinspike's many snugs that they retire to take supper, tucked away in the left wing with a roaring fire and Snowy contented snoring to keep them company. They sit together in one of the Captain's favourite armchairs, sinking deep into overstuffed cushions and picking at a tray of hot pastries. Tintin, squeezed up against the Captain's side with his legs curled across the man's knees, cannot stop smiling. Judging by the sound of it, Haddock is eating with his usual vigour – his beard will be full of crumbs – and the little rumbles of pleasure emanating from his chest spark oddly against Tintin's nerves, his skin tightening with something akin to anticipation. 

He ignores it; there are too many new certainties for him to dwell on anything uncertain. In truth, it all feels absurdly familiar, as though Tintin has been casually appropriating Haddock's lap for years, yet he is dizzy with the Captain's presence, feeling giddy and silly and slightly shy of him, wanting to bury himself in the man and run from him all at once.

“Penny for them.”

“Hm?”

The Captain's arm, slung around Tintin's back, moves so that his hand lands on Tintin's hip. “Your thoughts. A penny for them.”

Tintin chuckles – the Captain is fond of his homeland's idioms and will persist in translating even the most nonsensical examples. “It's so strange,” he says, shuffling in place until he can comfortably rest his cheek against Haddock's shoulder.

“Strange?”

“I suppose I'd never thought to notice; this feels...right, as though for years we've...”

He trails off. It _is_ strange; before Tibet, they hadn't been given to casual contact, preferring to greet each other with handshakes and walk shoulder-to-shoulder rather than arm-in-arm. But for the rigours of the adventuring life (Tintin's stomach clutches at the thought – oh to be free of the dratted bandages!) they might never have shared any more contact than that, yet the Captain touches him easily, and often, now that he can. 

Warm lips find his forehead, distracting from his musings, then the Captain leans his head against Tintin's, his beard ticklish-rough. “You might be the only one who didn't know, my lad,” he says, amusement rich in his tone. “Our dear Milanese nightingale has even commissioned an entire opera about it – my character wastes tragically away from a broken heart, I believe, the lily-livered malingerer.”

“...oh,” Tintin says, weakly. “Have I been terribly oblivious?”

“Perhaps a little,” replies the Captain, his cheek bunching in a grin where it rests against Tintin's brow. “Everyone else watched me follow you about like a puppy with no nose and drew their own confounded conclusions.”

Tintin, not sure how to respond, nudges his nose into the neck of Haddock's jersey; he has built a career on his ability to observe, to fit together broken fragments of a story to find the truth. How could he have missed _this_? “I'm sorry, Captain,” he says, eventually.

“Christopher Columbus, none of that!” comes the chiding response, “I'm not some pining poltroon from an odious operatic apocrypha! Really, lad, would I have invited you to live here if your mere perishing presence was a torment to me?”

The speech is ridiculous, as ridiculous as any array of insults his friend has cast, but Tintin's smile returns full-force in the wake of it and he leans happily up to kiss away Haddock's indignation on his behalf. “Of course not,” he says, when they separate (during the course of things, he has somehow managed to manoeuvre himself entirely into the Captain's lap, wrapping around him like octopus, and discovered a whole new angle from which to kiss him). “That would be absurd.”

“What would?” Haddock asks, sounding rather dazed, and Tintin laughs.

*

It is late when they retire – it must be, Tintin's mind is clouded and he feels limp and sluggish – and they climb the stairs together, the Captain cursing as he stumbles over a step or two in his tiredness. It is not until they reach Tintin's door (he has been counting the steps, these last few days, and knows this route best of all) that the Captain stops. His pulse, steady where Tintin's fingers close around his wrist, suddenly jumps to an increased tempo so quickly that Tintin's muscles are braced to drop into a fighter's crouch before he registers the change.

“Captain?”

Haddock moves – his boots shift on the carpet – and his hand finds Tintin's cheek, stroking fingers soothing down to cup his jaw. “ _Mon cher_ ,” he says, “Will you forgive an old man's foolishness?”

Tintin, alarmed, opens his mouth to protest, but the Captain's thumb brushes against his lips, quieting him, and he subsides as Haddock says, “I only mean... Dash it all, lad, I don't want to- to...”

Understanding dawns. Tintin tilts his head to kiss the Captain's palm, smiling when long fingers tremble against his cheek. “We'll take it slowly,” he promises, leaning into his friend's touch. “I'll- I'll see you at breakfast, Captain?”

“Breakfast,” Haddock repeats with obvious relief, then his fingers move in one last caress before pulling away. He takes Tintin's hand, presses a kiss to his battle-scarred knuckles, then releases him. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Tintin echoes. He feels oddly flustered by the gesture, a skitter of electricity sparking across his skin, and he turns to fumble his way into his room with alacrity, shutting the door with a decisive click and leaning back against it, listening to the low thud of the Captain's footsteps. 

The most curious thing, he decides, is how very tired his mouth feels after the evening's events. 

His dreams tonight are sure to be filled with _heat_.

*

“Oh, my dear boy!” is all the warning he gets before he is swept into an enthusiastic hug, barely two steps into the dining room and caught completely off-guard. The impact throws him back a few steps, but he is thankfully able to retain his balance in order to return the embrace. 

“Cuthbert! Thundering typhoons, warn the poor lad before you go leaping on him like a misguided missile!” the Captain roars, somewhere off in the gloom. Tintin grins, trying to ignore the way Haddock's voice lights up his insides, and pats the Professor's shoulder.

“Why, hello Professor,” he says, cheerfully, as he is released; it has been a good few weeks since Calculus departed for Geneva, having been invited to partake in clandestine astronomical research, and he has felt his friend's absence particularly keenly since their return from Tibet. Marlinspike Hall just isn't complete without him. “How was your trip?”

Calculus doesn't reply for a moment, his thin hands finding Tintin's cheeks and holding him still, the Professor murmuring as he inspects the bandages. “No, no, I can't see any rips,” he says, eliciting a chuckle from the reporter. “It must be snowblindness, is it? The Captain has been appallingly vague on the subject.”

“Blue blistering- Cuthbert, I _told_ you it was snowblindness!” the Captain interjects, indignantly, and a loud rustle announces the sacrifice of the daily paper to his frustration.

“Yes, yes, Tintin's going all that way to find his friend, it was an act of very great kindness,” Calculus replies, evidently deaf to Haddock's growl. “But that is not the issue at hand; now, my dear Tintin, how do you feel? Has there been any nausea, any headaches?”

“A mild headache,” Tintin says, allowing himself to be ushered to a chair; Snowy immediately jumps into his lap and begins sniffing at something on the table. “No, Snowy – Dr Lenaerts gave me some painkillers.”

Calculus offers an approving hum, guiding Tintin's hand to the handle of a cup that, from the warmth, must contain either tea or hot chocolate. “Lenaerts? Yes, yes, excellent, a sterling fellow. Has he prescribed any painkilling medication?”

The Captain's growl is abruptly punctuated by the clatter of something being set down with altogether too much force and Tintin takes a sip from his cup – chocolate, as he'd thought. “He has ind-”

“Well, that won't do at all! You must phone him immediately, aspirin isn't nearly strong enough!”

Tintin hastily swallows a mouthful of cocoa to say, “No, Professor-”

“In fact, I'll do it myself; aspirin! For snowblindness! Hah, the man is quite delusional, quite, quite delusional...”

“But Professor-”

“Oh, leave him, he probably won't reach the phone without being distracted anyway,” Haddock remarks, from Tintin's left. He sounds irritable, his voice rough with tiredness – perhaps he slept as badly as Tintin did, beneath blankets that were heavy and cloying, ensnared in dreams that pressed far too close for comfort....The reporter fidgets in his seat. “Did you, ah, did you sleep well, Captain?”

He is answered by a snort, then Haddock's characteristic groan as he heaves himself out of his chair and the shuffle of his slippers on the carpet. “You know very well that I didn't, y'miserable monopoliser,” he grumbles.

Tintin, poised to protest, is distracted by the influx of those familiar scents, the sweetness of tobacco and the coarseness of pipe-smoke, the heavy scent of wool replaced by the freshness of cotton, Haddock's breath spiced with coffee as his hand finds first Tintin's shoulder, then the back of his neck. “Good morning, landlubber,” the Captain says, so close that Tintin's skin tightens with a flush and he reaches out to find the strong line of Haddock's whiskered jaw mere inches from his own.

“Good morning,” he replies, leaning up for the Captain's kiss; the vague heat of his restless dreams coalesces, sharpens to a fierce jolt that strikes at his insides, and his gasp is swiftly followed by the slow slide of the Captain's tongue.

Which is all well and good, until a polite cough comes from the doorway, startling them both, and Nestor's voice says, “The devilled eggs you requested, sir.”

“Confound it, Nestor!” Haddock bellows; having jerked back in alarm, his hand now returns to Tintin's neck, stroking the fine hairs at his nape. “You surreptitious sneak, why must you creep up unannounced?”

“My apologies, sir. It was not my intention to disturb you, but as I entered the room some minutes ago, I feared the ruination of the breakfast.”

“The ruination- Of all the confounded-”

By now sufficiently recovered from the shock, Tintin hurriedly says, “Thank you, Nestor, that will be all,” before the Captain can splutter himself insensible in temper.

“Very good, Master Tintin. Will you be requiring anything else, sir? It's simply that I have a rather urgent call to make to Mr Collignon.”

Haddock grunts an assent. As a low click announces the butler's departure, he clears his throat and says, “Collignon, did he say? Blistering barnacles, whatever does he want with the locksmith?”

And there it is, the delayed blush; Tintin hides his face in the Captain's dressing gown, cheeks burning, and says, “I, er, I suppose you already have a lock on your bedroom door?”

“I don't, as it happens, but what in heaven's name has that got to do with-” Haddock stops, then swallows audibly and says, “Oh.”

“Quite.”

“So he- He noticed-”

Amused, Tintin nuzzles into flannel, into the reassuring solidity of the Captain's body, the soft give of his stomach. “I think it's fairly safe to say that he did, Captain, yes.”

There is a pause, then clenched muscle relaxes where Tintin rests, the tension draining from Haddock's body in one long, fluid moment, and blunt fingers stroke through Tintin's hair. “Well, that's one person told, at least. D'you think the same method would work with Cuthbert?”

“Captain!”

“No, you're right, he wouldn't notice. We'd have to try something more drastic – how about some horizontal acrobatics on his specimen table?”

Tintin laughs – can't help himself – and tries to ignore the leap of his stimulus-starved imagination; Marlinspike has a great many rooms, and it wouldn't do to spend the Captain's entire fortune on locks for them all. 

*

The doctor's hands are nowhere near as chill as his voice. Tintin, who knows better than to fidget, finds himself tempted to regardless; contrary to the Captain's prediction, Calculus had managed to complete his outraged phonecall to Dr Lenaerts, resulting in an almost-immediate visit from the good doctor, whose equilibrium is offset by an irritable tightness in his voice.

“Perhaps I judged the case incorrectly,” Lenaerts says, unwinding the bandages with more haste, though no less care, than the last time. “It is not the Captain from whom I must defend myself.”

Tintin squirms again, prompting the doctor to click his tongue in reprimand. “I'm sorry,” he says, not for the first time that afternoon. “The Professor can be...single-minded.”

“As are all good scientists, though your friend has more of the bulldog about him than usual,” Lenaerts replies, tartly. There is an earthy scent clinging to him, sharp with mint and antiseptic, and Tintin suspects Calculus' ire has summoned him from rather more pleasant outdoor pursuits. The doctor is a keen walker and observer of wildlife, and the unseasonably cool Spring weather has no doubt affected the lives of Belgium's fauna; Tintin is acutely aware that his condition has once more rendered him a nuisance.

He has no chance to offer an apology, however, as Lenaerts unravels the last of the cotton, leaving only the new poultices covering his eyes. The doctor begins to peel them away without preamble, making an approving sound when Tintin's eyes are exposed to the relative cool of the room, the moisture left by the compresses tingling with cold. “There is marked improvement, you'll be glad to hear,” Lenaerts says, then something soft brushes against Tintin's right eyelid, gathering the medicinal residue. “A drastic change, in such a short time; I confess, I am surprised.”

 _You and me both,_ Tintin thinks. Twenty-four hours, and his life at Marlinspike couldn't have altered more drastically. The Captain, usually a belligerent presence during Lenaerts' visits, had been forcibly chivvied from the room before the examination could begin and instructed not to haunt the doorway. “It is enough that I should suffer abuse from your houseguest without you breathing down my neck as well,” Lenaerts had said, in brisk French over Haddock's protests. Tintin feels his absence, needful for the steady, quiet strength that lurks beneath the Captain's blustery mannerisms, but doctor's orders are doctor's orders. 

As before, once his eyelids feel dry and clean, a bony hand comes to rest over his left eye. “When you're ready, my boy.”

Tintin takes a deep breath. He remembers this particularly clearly; the struggle against lethargic muscles, the swell of hope, the lancing pain and, worse, defeat. Hope stirs regardless, a familiar lightness that expands his chest, bright as it bubbles through his veins, and he coaxes his right eye open. Haphazard tears spill freely and he blinks to clear them. The world swims into alignment with agonizing slowness, blurred shapes coalescing with each blink, outlines and silhouettes gradually sharpening as he tries to focus. It's a struggle – like the first steps after a period of enforced bed rest, the muscles sluggish and uncooperative, and he has to squint against the strain to bring the long, lean form of the doctor into focus.

Lenaerts ( _goodness, have his moustaches always been so thick?_ ) smiles and Tintin finds himself noticing, as never before, the way that the skin around a person's mouth folds and stretches, how the temples tighten, how eyeglasses glint as they reflect the light.

“Great snakes!” he manages, after a moment's shocked silence. Lenaerts chuckles, but his eyes ( _dark brown, almost black in the dim light_ ) are serious as they study him. 

“No reddening or inflammation of the conjuntiva, I see. And no pain, this time?”

“None.”

“Excellent. Now, if you would?” The next couple of minutes are taken up with various tests of Tintin's vision, Lenaerts tasking him to track the movement of his finger, attempt to focus on objects near and far and describe what lurks in the peripheries of his sight. He complies, albeit impatiently – of course his sight is fine, it was only a trifling matter, there is the far more interesting proposition of his _left_ eye to consider – but the doctor eventually pronounces himself satisfied and begins the process anew.

Sight. Oh, how he has _missed_ it. He answers the doctor's questions absent-mindedly at best, absorbed in mapping the room about him; Marlinspike, so familiar, is an untried landscape once again. Never has a sitting-room appeared so much like the vast, rolling expanse of a whole new adventure. The fall of light fascinates him, even with the curtains drawn to spare his beleaguered vision, sun-golden light draped in shadow, and all of the _colours_...

With a start, Tintin realises that Lenaerts has stopped talking. He is regarding Tintin in an amused fashion, the corners of his mouth quirked, as he methodically packs an assortment of instruments into his Gladstone bag. “I'm sorry, Doctor,” he says, contritely, “What were you saying?”

“Little of importance, it seems,” Lenaerts replies, tartly. He raises a fingertip to straighten his glasses, with an economy of motion that suggests it is an instinctive gesture; noticing this makes Tintin want to smile - he'd almost forgotten quite how observant he could be. “The sensitivity to light may linger for a day or two, but otherwise I am happy to declare you cured. Shall I have the bill forwarded to the wilderness, or will you allow yourself some rest?”

Tintin grins. The doctor, fully aware of his proclivities, sighs in what might have been a weary fashion, but for the amusement in his eyes. “Very well, then, the wilderness it is. Good day, young man.”

“Good-”

But the door to the sitting room is open and Lenaerts startles as a white blur darts between his legs and flashes across the floor, leaping into Tintin's lap, barking fit to burst. “Snowy!” the reporter calls, delighted, and the terrier barks again, his whole body wriggling with joy as he cranes up to lick his master's chin.

He'd forgotten – how could he forget? Maybe he'd never really noticed – the exact length of Snowy's fur, the precision of his curls, the thickness of his walrus moustache, the pale shade of pink that spills from his mouth as a lolling tongue. “Hello there” he says, scratching his fingers along Snowy's spine. The dog, so excited that he's quivering, leans into the caress and lets out little yips and whines, panting into Tintin's face with his mouth spread wide in a doggy grin.

Tintin sweeps him up with a laugh, leaping to his feet with a twirl, spinning in a dizzying circle in a  
mad rush of exuberance. “I can see, Snowy!” he cries, stumbling to a stop and cradling the terrier to his chest. “I can see!”

Snowy, less than impressed by his acrobatics, yelps and begins to struggle. Tintin sets him down, smiling fit to burst. “Shall we find the Captain?” he asks, conspiratorially, anticipation coiling in his stomach; it feels like an age since he laid eyes on the Captain, turbulent and strange, as though time could be measured, not by the ticking of a clock but by the yearning ache of newly-discovered desire. “Let's go, boy.”

It's library that his instincts lead him to, the scene of that standoff mere days ( _a lifetime_ ) ago, and he doesn't allow himself any hesitation, pushing open the door and ducking inside with quick, decisive strides. The room is in semi-darkness, several of the curtains drawn, and the little light there is falls with uneven softness through the windows. It's not the complete darkness he'd been half-expecting, but the dimness is telling; the Captain is as nervous as he is. 

That, more than anything else, strengthens his resolve and Tintin makes his way through the endless rows of bookshelves to the rear study; the Captain's writing desk, unlike his own, is positioned deep in the heart of the library, standing defiant amidst the Haddock family biographies and Marlinspike ledgers, where the Captain says he feels the closest to his long-lost kin. This is where Tintin will find him.

The first sight of him sets all of Tintin's nerves a-jangle. Haddock isn't at his desk, making a showy pretence of dealing with his correspondence; instead, he sits stiff and straight in his old wingback, pipe in hand and a book lying untouched on the arm of the chair. His gaze is fixed on Tintin, mouth set in a grim line, and he offers no greeting other than a tightening of his lips. The reporter's heart, already dancing a frenzied Charleston in his chest, clenches. _What if...?_

Steeling himself, Tintin steps forward. Unmoving, the Captain watches him and Tintin ignores the shakiness in his limbs as he approaches and, with a rush of inspiration, climbs into the chair. He straddles the Captain's knees, sinking down onto muscled heat, and closes his eyes. 

Instantly, broad hands cover his thighs, steadying him, and he opens his eyes once again to find the Captain watching him, dark-eyed and uncertain.

“I thought-”

Tintin smiles, all nervousness banished in a moment, and drapes his arms over Haddock's shoulders, leaning close to catch those oh-so-familiar scents. “So did I,” he says, simply, drinking in the sight of lover's face; there are lines he longs to trace with his fingers,with his lips, skin darkened by a lifetime at sea and now he knows the softness there, the sweetness, the salt... “It seems we were both wrong, Captain.”

The Captain's grin is sudden, fierce, a white shock of teeth amongst all that beard, and he reaches up to kiss away Tintin's last, fluttering doubts. “I'll not hold it against you, laddie,” he says, his arms heavy about Tintin's back, and the reporter has never in his life been so glad to be wrong.


End file.
